


In the Great Silence of Snow

by DarkMoonMaiden



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst and Humor, Crimes & Criminals, Dark humor because it's Wade, Harley Quinn is mentioned, M/M, Peter's an FBI agent, Wade is a serial killer, so are the rest of the Avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:10:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkMoonMaiden/pseuds/DarkMoonMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker is assigned to interview the dangerous and crazy serial killer, Wade Wilson, in attempt to catch a psychopath on the loose.</p><p>Basically a Silence of the Lambs AU that no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea where this idea came from, but it's stuck with me for awhile and I decided that I need to get it out of my system :)
> 
> Enjoy!

“So, how old are you, exactly?”

Peter chose not to answer him, showing the nurse and security guard his FBI-issued ID. They let him in without a fuss, the warden following him closely.

“You can’t be over twenty,” Dr. Harry Osborn continued, eying Agent Parker up and down in what was meant to be a discreet manner. It truly wasn’t, and it was taking every ounce of Peter’s self-control and professionalism not to call him out.

“I assure you, sir, I meet the age requirements of being in the  _FBI_ ”--heavy emphasis, to remind Dr. Osborn that he wasn’t hitting on some random young boy at a bar--”and I’m well enough qualified to interview Mr. Wilson. That’s why Agent Fury picked me himself for the job.”

Osborn raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but wisely didn’t say anything, directing Agent Parker through the sterile corridors and to a lower level.

“The most dangerous ones are kept down here,” Dr. Osborn explained, impatiently waiting for the nurse to buzz them through another door. “The mass murderers, serial rapists, terrorists, you name it, we got it.” He halted Agent Parker from continuing with a hand on his shoulder, letting it linger. “Wade Wilson is an incredibly dangerous man, Agent Parker, I want to make this very clear. Just a few months ago he broke the back of an orderly and ripped the dick off another one." Agent Parker winced; he'd read the report, of course, but it seemed so much more real now that he was about to speak with the culprit. "I know, it's gross. Poor Sam's never gonna have a normal sex life again."

"Any guidelines I should follow?"

"Don’t take anything from him, don’t get too close to the glass, and don’t provoke him in any manner," Dr. Osborn rattled off with practiced ease.

Agent Parker nodded, making sure to catalogue what Dr. Osborn was telling him. “Wilson violently dislikes it when people mock him,” Dr. Osborn continued, starting to walk again. He tried to keep his hand on Agent Parker’s lower back, but the other smoothly shifted away from him. “His moods can change wildly, so be prepared for him to go from playful to murderous in .4 seconds. And if he says anything that might even seem the smallest bit important, I want to be the first to hear about it. Are we clear?”

 _God, can the god complex on this guy get any bigger?_  “I’m sorry, sir, but everything that Mr. Wilson tells me is going straight to Agent Fury,” Peter responded coldly, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen from his bag as they reached the last set of doors. “If you want the transcripts of our conversations, you’ll have to take it up with him.”

Dr. Osborn gave him a vaguely disgusted, leering look. “I like you, kid. Hopefully Wilson won’t break you.” He left without saying anything else, much to Agent Parker’s relief.

Nurse Mary Jane, a pretty redhead around the same age as Peter, gave him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry about him. He can be a bit difficult to handle,” she apologized.

Agent Parker gave her a small smile. “Can’t imagine working for him,” he muttered, straightening his suit jacket.

Now that the annoyance that was Dr. Osborn had left, the nervousness was starting to creep back in. And why wouldn’t it be? This was his first solo mission, and instead of it being some easy homicide case, Fury had assigned him to interview a mass murderer to help with an ongoing, high profile case. With numerous women’s  _lives_ hanging on the balance. God, he wished he had some of the confidence Fury seemed to have for him.

Nurse Mary Jane laughed at Parker’s remark. “You don’t even know. Anyways, I set out a chair for you outside of Mr. Wilson’s cell. He’s the one at the very end. I’d recommend not walking too close to the cells.”

“Thanks,” he said.

She winked at him. “I’ll be right here in case anything happens, okay? You’ll do great, tiger.”

She opened the door and he entered the hallway, the gate closing heavily behind him. Holding his breath and gripping his paper tightly, Agent Parker walked purposefully down the hallway, keeping close to the right side and away from the cells. He ignored the crazed shouts and catcalls that attempted to gain his attention or draw him closer, keeping his eyes focused on the wall at the far end of the hallway.

In a square cell, a thick piece of glass separating him from Agent Parker, was Wade Wilson. The heavily scarred man was on the ground, doing push ups one after another in rapid succession. His walls were mostly plain, save for a few posters of scantily clad women, and the bed was messy, unmade. His white T-shirt was on the bed, leaving his back bare.

Agent Parker didn’t try to get his attention at first. He pulled the chair closer to the glass, settling down with his bag leaning against his leg, tape recorder on in his pocket and away from view.

Agent Parker swallowed heavily as Wade stood up, his bare back still facing him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Wade asked bluntly, stretching his arms above his head.

“I’m Agent Peter Parker,” he responded, mentally congratulating himself for keeping his voice steady and calm. “You agreed to letting me speak to you today?

Wade snorted derisively, pulling his discarded T-shirt back on. “Yeah, but I don’t need some middle-aged, baby voiced prick to do it--” He stopped when he turned around, eyes widening. “Oh. Hel- _lo_. No wonder you sounded like a teenager going through puberty.”

Peter gritted his teeth. “I’m twenty-five,” he said tightly, squeezing his pen hard enough that it creaked.

Wade cackled, the sound sharp in the air as he threw his head back. “I bet that fart Osborn had a heyday with you,” he commented. “Has he tried to get in your pants yet? Who am I kidding. Of course he has.”

“I have some questions I’d like to discuss with you,” Parker said, attempting to get them back on track.

“Oh, tsk, tsk!” Wilson pouted. “No witty banter? No getting flustered and slipping up to tell me why you’re actually here? You’re no fun, Petey baby.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me that,” Parker responded. Wilson held up his hands in a defeated gesture, shrugging. “And I can tell you exactly why I’m here without ‘slipping up.’” Pulling out the file, he opened the slot and slipped it in, pushing it back so Wade could get it. “Recently, a number of young women have gone missing and have been discovered missing various limbs and organs. The methodology is similar to one of your associates, around the time you were still at large.”

Wade leisurely picked up the file and flipped through it, stopping at what Peter assumed to be the first of the crime scene photos. An eyebrow raised, and a slow, surprised grin spread over his features. “Yeah, I definitely see what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t elaborate, choosing instead to admire the pictures more closely. “We need a name, Mr. Wilson,” Peter reminded him, shifting in his seat.

“Hey, I’m not calling you Petey baby anymore, so don’t call me Mr. Wilson. It makes me sound like that guy in the sweater on that old kid’s show,” Wade grumbled, scooting a chair closer so he was sitting in front of Parker as he searched through the file.

“Mr. Rogers?” Parker offered after a moment’s deliberation.

Wade gave him a wide grin. “Yeah, yeah. That’s who I meant. You’re great. A plus.”

Peter’s lips quirked into a self-satisfied smile before he realized what he was doing. Composing himself, he asked, “Are you going to give me his name?”

“Nah.”

Parker blinked. “Excuse me?”

Wade threw the folder onto his bed, a few of the gruesome photos peeking out. “Well, I can’t just give you everything you need all at once. Where’s the fun in that? And if I tell ya now, I’ll never see you again.” He winked broadly.

“If you tell me nothing, then I’ll be removed from the case and you’ll still never see me again,” Peter responded without a moment’s hesitation, staring straight into Wade’s eyes.

The murderer’s expression took on a manic quality, a dangerous sort of curiosity lighting up his face. “Oh, I like you,” Wilson practically purred. “You’re gonna be fun. But still, why should I help you if I don’t get anything out of it? Why should I, huh?”

“Reasonable requests can be negotiated,” Parker relented, already regretting the decision of speaking.  _Fury is going to kill me_. “I can’t offer you anything that’s set in stone, because it’s being discussed by the higher ups.”

“And you’re just a grunt,” Wilson stated bluntly.

Peter couldn’t bite back his pride. “If I was just a grunt, I wouldn’t be working on such an important case and interviewing you.” Wade arched an eyebrow and chuckled gleefully, warmly amused.

The amusement faded as he thoughtfully stared off to the side at the folder, running his tongue over his teeth. “Look up Harleen Quinzel,” he said at last. “I think that’s a good start for you.”

A frown furrowed Peter’s brow as he jotted down the name. It seemed like a fake--who honestly had a name so close to Harlequin?--but his gut was telling him that the name would actually lead him to something. Wade Wilson was known for giving roundabout hints that took careful patience to decipher intermixed with bogus information. Doubt wiggled into his head.

“You aren’t just giving me something you came up with to watch me run around like a chicken with it’s head cut off, are you?” he asked suspiciously.

Wade snickered. “You’ve done your homework,” he praised.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“No, no, it’s actually useful, I promise,” Wade said, drawing an ‘x’ over his chest with a finger. “You’ll see. Hopefully. If you can’t then sucks for you. Now go impress me, Petey.” And with that, he threw himself onto his bed, arms pillowing his head, and he closed his eyes.

Peter stood up slowly, gathering his things. He gave Wilson a polite thank you, promising that he would return in a few days. His words weren’t acknowledged, and he took his leave with a huff of annoyance.

As he passed one of the cells, there was a gasp of pain. Parker turned around, alarmed, automatically taking a step towards the cellmate to help him with his unknown affliction. Before he could realize his mistake, a long arm reached out and grabbed his wrist. The man wrenched him forward, Parker’s head colliding painfully with the metal bars. He gasped in pain, and was vaguely aware of the sounds of yelling over the ringing in his ears.

Nurse Mary Jane pulled him back as the security guards dealt with the inmate, unlocking the cell door and dragging him out, another nurse pulling out a vial and a syringe. The redhaired lady hovered over the agent, checking the bruise on his forehead and making sure he didn’t have a concussion while the other inmates screamed and yelled, adding to the commotion.

“ _Parker! Agent Parker_!”

Recognizing Wilson’s voice over the roar of noise, Parker pulled away from Nurse Mary Jane and raced back to the end of the hall, clutching his aching head. Wilson was up against the glass, face dark and angry.

“That guy’s an idiot, he doesn’t know when to keep it to himself,” Wilson growled. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“So you’ll give me a name?” Parker demanded, clenching his hands into fists.

“Not yet. You gotta work for the information, Petey,” Wade said, eyes dancing with a manic light. “Trace Harleen’s steps.”

“Mr. Wilson, there are  _lives_ depending on you--”

“Then you should work fast. I’m giving you a gift, Petey. A chance to get famous--”

“I don’t  _want_ to be famous!” Peter interrupted him, voice rising shrilly with his nerves and distress.

“Then I’ll give you more experience under your belt than you could ever hope for. More than what Fury could give you in a decade, do you get that? Now go away, before Osborn comes storming in and we have to deal with a huffy douche with a holier-than-thou attitude.”

“Agent Parker, we should really check to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” Nurse Mary Jane said worriedly, grabbing his arm carefully and directing him out of the hallway.

“I’ll see you soon, Agent Parker,” Wade called after them, dark mood replaced instantaneously by a teasing smirk.

***

Later on, after Nurse Mary Jane had deemed him alright and had given him her private number in case of emergencies (“I swear, I’m totally not hitting on you. It’s for emergencies only. And emergencies cover loneliness, if you ever wanna hang out. I’ll shut up now.”), Peter sat in his hotel room, a coffee next to him and his laptop in front of him. The shock of the viciously cold outside air had helped him focus, but a headache was still pounding at his skull.

His mind kept on replaying the day’s scenario, examining in close detail every second of the interview. Next to him was the tape recorder, waiting for Peter to replay it for the fifth time.

His call with Fury had ended a few minutes earlier, and had been as dissatisfying as his talk with Wilson.

“But I didn’t get anything  _useful_ ,” Peter argued after Fury congratulated him on a job well done. “This is probably just another roundabout that Wilson’s using to entertain himself, and by the time we figure that out another girl is going to be dead.”

“ _From his past interactions with our agents, I don’t think that it’s useless_ ,” Fury remarked. “ _Wilson tends to insult those who he gives bullshit information to, but it sounds like he was doing the exact opposite with you_.”

“He could just know how to play us--”

“ _Agent Parker. You’re thinking too much into this. The faster you look into his clue, the faster we’ll figure out if Wilson was lying_.”

A heavy sigh. “Yes, sir.”

“ _Good. Now let me get back to work_.”

Peter drank his coffee and Googled Harleen Quinzel, sifting through the numerous results and resolutely ignoring the images of dead victims ( _lying in the cold, cold snow, skin frostbitten and blue with barely any blood left in them_ ) that flashed continuously through his head.

It took hours of searching for Harleen and Harlequin, but eventually he found a series of news articles that seemed right on the money.

Harley Quinn. A con artist from four years ago--the same time that Wade Wilson was still on the loose--who’s real name was Harleen Quinzel. She had collected millions of dollars in jewelry, gold bars, cars and clothes before she was discovered, and left with a literal bang: she blew up her latest victim’s office building, killing three people, and spray painting ‘FUCK YOU’ in large red letters over the front sidewalk.

Her current location was unknown, but a friend of hers had bought the burned-down property and built a club with apartments over it. It was still in business, and was open until four in the morning. Peter checked the time in the corner of his laptop screen--it was only nine.

Peter scribbled down the address while calling Agent Fury, excitedly telling him that he had a lead and where he would be. Shutting down his laptop and flicking off the lights, Agent Parker dashed out of the hotel room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> It's really similar to Silence of the Lambs right now, but I'm planning on changing it up a lot later on.
> 
> If you'd leave a comment or kudos, it'd make me happy! And if you have anything you want me to write, send me an ask on tumblr: darkmoonmaiden.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I was so not expecting that this many of you would like this! Thank you guys so much!
> 
> No Wade in this part, but he'll be back in the next one.
> 
> Warning for a bit of gore. It's been awhile since I've written something like it, but hopefully it will be okay.

The landlady took a deep drag from her cigarette, leading Agent Parker up the dingy, dark staircase. Heavy music from the club below was muffled by the walls, the bass shaking the stairs. The lighting was dim, and occasionally a giggling patron of the club would go racing passed them.

It had been surprisingly easy to get Miss White’s permission to see Quinzel’s apartment. Agent Parker had shown her his credentials and explained that his visit wasn’t a drug raid, or anything that could damage the club’s reputation, but simply an investigation into a possible lead on an ongoing case. She had pressed for which case, suspicious, but that had gone away when it was revealed what case it was.

“Harleen asked me to keep the top level for her an’ her alone,” Miss White explained, voice deep and raspy from years of smoking. “Dunno why, seein’ as she’s never actually been here. But she paid twelve years’ worth of rent an’ was a good friend, so who’m I to complain?”

“So no one’s been up here since the building was rebuilt?” Peter clarified, skipping a step to avoid a mysterious stain on the carpet.

“No, there was a man that came in...a couple of times.  But Harleen had already said that the man with an ugly purple scarf was allowed to come in, and boy was that scarf ugly! Never seen anythin’ like it before!”

Parker nodded, politely interrupting her prattle by asking, “Would you be able to give us a description of this man?”

Miss White grimaced. “Sorry, don’t think I’d be able to. Both times he came were on Friday nights.” Peter gave her a confused look. “I drink ‘til I black out on Fridays.” He nodded in understanding, but that fact was stuck with him--the killer always took his victims on either a Friday or Saturday.

At the top of the stairs, there was a short hallway that led to a battered front door. Miss White pulled out a key and a flashlight, shoving the latter into Parker’s hands. “The electricity don’t work in there. Might be some rats, too. I woulda had it fixed up, but I didn’t wanna break in without Harleen or that man’s permission. I value my tenants’ privacy, y’know.” Parker replied that he was sure she did and thanked her for the flashlight as she unlocked the door.

The apartment was almost completely black, save for small trickles of light that slipped out where the newspaper didn’t fully cover the windows. Trash was scattered across the floor, and the pungent odor of rotten food wafted out, with a faint smell of something else underneath.

Miss White gagged. “Hope y’don’t mind, but I’m stayin’ out here. This place reeks.” She muttered something about getting a biohazard crew up there as Parker propped the door open with a stray book. “Try ta hurry, will ya? I don’t want this stinking up the whole place.”

“I’ll hurry,” Agent Parker said absently, flicking on the flashlight and putting on a pair of Latex gloves. He entered the apartment.

The dim beam of the flashlight illuminated only a small amount of space at a time, but the apartment seemed pretty much the same throughout: dirty and covered in dust. Inside the kitchen sink were numerous dishes that were covered in dark mold, the food on it rotted beyond recognition. It seemed like a lot more than a couple visits’ worth of food, and Peter made a note to look further into that with Miss White. Decorations littered the main room, ranging from disturbing, old dolls that seemed to stare at Agent Parker to pictures of a young Harleen and another grinning man.

He pulled the frame down and stared at the picture inside, before setting it down on the dinner table, wanting to take it back to his hotel to figure out the identity of the man. Finding nothing else of interest in the main room, he headed back further, to a hallway, where the smell of bleach grew stronger.

The first door led to a bedroom, which was startlingly bare, compared to the living room. There was a stained mattress laying in the corner and a few empty bottles of beer, but was otherwise empty. A rat nibbled on a mysterious piece of food in the corner, watching Agent Parker with it’s black eyes. Backing up, Peter closed the squeaky door and went as quickly as he could through the bathroom, desperately avoiding the toilet and whatever the hell was growing inside of it.

The final door was the only one that had been closed firmly, and seemed to be the source of the faint smell of decay and bleach. Taking a deep, calming breath, Agent Parker opened the door.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

“What?” Miss White called back to him. “You all right in there?”

“Yeah,” Peter strangled out, staring at the room in horrified wonder. “I’m okay. Just got...startled.”

In the room there was two rows of wooden shelves. Both were pressed up against the wall, and all lines with cylindrical jars that had various baby animals preserved in them, the majority piglets. All of them had had extra limbs, heads, and tails stitched onto them, old with age and neglect. On another wall was a desk, which had needles, string and scalpels scattered across it, a couple of telltale brown stains on its wooden surface. Next to it was a bag of the ‘excess’ parts, which had already liquefied and were the main source of the putrid smell in the air.

A few skeletons of rats, some fur still clinging to the bones, were scattered around the floor. Their killer was hissing in the corner, the thick snake slowly slithering behind the desk. A cold shiver went up Agent Parker’s spine at the sight of the reptile.

But what had Agent Parker the most concerned was the large chest in the center of the room. It looked like one of the traditional treasure chests from children’s fairy tales about pirates, with fake gold details and wood paneling. Brown was speckled across the rim of it, dried in drips and flaking off.

_Come on, Peter. Quit stalling, just open it already._

Unlatching it, Agent Parker flipped it open and immediately stumbled back, choking on a cough at the horrible smell that emanated from it, flies swarming out of it.

A body, contorted into the box at angles that spoke of broken bones. A few strands of hair still clung to his head, and where his eyes should have been, there were empty sockets, the skin still there ripped and cut. Clothes hung loosely off of his body, and maggots were peaking out of his skin. His stomach was torn open open, the edges of the tears lined with stitches that had been ripped out, and the remnants of what seemed to be a cracked-open, large egg lay nestled inside. A few shed snakeskins littered the inside of the box, along with the delicate skeleton of a small snake.

Forcing down the bile that wanted to escape his throat, Agent Parker turned the flashlight beam away from the chest and left the apartment, pulling out his cell phone and calling Agent Fury.

“What was in there?” Miss White demanded when he came out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in there at the moment, ma’am,” Agent Parker managed, standing in her way. “This is now a crime scene.” The color drained out of her wrinkled face, cigarette falling from between her slack lips.

“Oh, fuck,” she uttered, leaning heavily against the wall and running a shaking hand over her cheek. “Oh, Lord have mercy.”

***

The body was identified as the man in the picture from before--a twenty-nine-year-old Jack Clarkson, an ex-boyfriend of Harleen Quinzel’s. His file was almost squeaky clean, with only a couple of speeding tickets and no indication that he joined in with his ex’s illegal activities. He had disappeared a few years ago, matching up with the age of his body.

Agents Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff were on a flight to Clarkson’s parents’ house in Des Moines, Iowa within a few hours of the body’s identification, planning on gently breaking the news to them and questioning them about their son’s disappearance.

While that happened, Parker was joining Agent Fury and Doctor Banner in the autopsy of the body.

He approached the morgue with Agent Fury in a rented car. It was the afternoon after the night that Parker had found the body, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep yet. Agent Fury had shoved a coffee cup into his hands as soon as they met up, which Peter had just finished as they pulled into the morgue’s parking lot.

When they entered, three police officers were there, one of them the sheriff, all of them tense and serious.

“Sheriff Brown,” Agent Fury said politely, shaking his hand. “I’m Agent Fury, we talked on the phone?” He motioned for Parker to go to the back as he discussed the situation with the sheriff.

Dr. Banner was in the examination room, hovering over the body bag and obsessively checking medical equipment. Agent Hill was also in the room, with her camera hanging around her neck, waiting to be used.

Dr. Banner gave Parker a warm smile when he entered. “Peter,” he greeted him, squeezing his shoulder gently. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going,” he responded tiredly, accepting the plastic gloves from the doctor. “When did they fly you guys in?”

“We had to drive here,” Agent Hill informed him. “Got in about an hour ago. Bitch of a drive.” Peter grunted in sympathy. “So. Heard you found the body.”

“In a treasure chest, with preserved animals all around it,” Agent Parker confirmed. He knew that they had both already read the report, but wanted his confirmation. “Never seen anything like it.”

“And we’re assuming it’s The Skin Man?”

Peter and Bruce winced at the nickname. The name had originated from the local newspaper of the first victim’s home town, coming from the fact that he had nearly skinned her, along with taking her right foot.

“Yes, we’re assuming it’s him,” Agent Fury said as he entered, closing the door behind him and already slipping on gloves. “The location was given to us from Wade Wilson, when Agent Parker was speaking to him about to Skin Man. Now enough gossiping.” Dr. Banner unzipped the body bag and began the examination.

The snake egg was hatched postmortem, but had been sewn in while Clarkson was alive. The eyes had been removed with careful precision, hinting that a professional had done it, and were the suspected cause of death. The stitches, even though they had been ripped out by the escaping snakes, were spaced evenly and had been done with proper suture thread, also adding to the theory it was done by someone who knew what they were doing.

The snakeskins and eggshell pieces were carefully removed and set to the side. A few of the most intact skins and the skeleton were put into containers, to be taken to a zoologist who would be able to identify the species.

"Clarkson wouldn't know how to preserve animals like that, would he?" Agent Hill remarked, taking close pictures of the gouges and the body's wrists.

"No, he was the manager of a convenience store," Peter agreed absently, trying to breathe shallowly so as not to inhale the horrible odor that hung in the room. "No formal education after high school."

"So, the creepy six-armed pigs were done by someone else."

Director Fury nodded. “They were done by someone who knew what they were doing. Hill, I want you to compile a list of all the taxidermists in the city and the surrounding areas. Parker, you have an appointment with Wilson in an hour, so you should get going. Dr. Banner and I’ll finish up here.”

***

_Exiting the club and taking a breath of the cold air, Felicia Hardy drunkenly proclaimed, “It’s so cold my balls are going to fall off.”_

_“Can you be any more vulgar?” her friend said in a playfully disgusted manner, stumbling in her heels. She leaned against Felicia for support, the other throwing an arm around her shoulders._

_“Oh, don’t even try me, Lisa,” Felicia threatened, pulling out a cigarette from her purse and sticking it between her lips. She looked around the street, annoyed that the taxis she’d called for hadn’t arrived yet. “Does it really take that long for a taxi to get here in this shitty little town? I mean, is there that high of a demand for them? Seriously.”_

_A man, also standing outside of the club, offered her a lighter, saying, “I totally agree with you.”_

_“And that’s not getting you in my panties.”_

_Annoyance and disappointment flickered over his face before he tried to splutter out something in his defense. She wouldn’t let him, and he ended up going back in the club, flustered and shocked at her response. The bouncer gave Felicia an approving smirk before going back to arguing with a drunk man, denying him entrance into the club._

_After a few minutes of waiting and smoking, a taxi finally pulled up to the curb, the driver making no move to get out or get the ladies’ attentions._

_“You go ahead and take that one,” Felicia motioned for her friend to go. “I’ll wait for the other one.”_

_“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Lisa laughed, pushing the white-haired girl towards the awaiting vehicle. “You’ll just get in a bar fight. And I am not bailing your ass out of jail twice in one week. I don’t love you that much.”_

_Felicia pouted, but smacked a wet kiss on her friend’s cheek. “I’ll call you when I get home. You do the same!” Lisa assured her that she would before accepting Felicia’s half-smoked cigarette and watching her enter the back of the taxi._

_“Hi, can you take me to 31 Church Avenue?” Felicia asked sweetly, smiling warmly at the man in the rearview mirror. It faltered slightly when he didn’t smile back, though he did nod and start the car._

_“Busy night tonight?” she asked, trying to make idle conversation. “It’s a small town, so obviously there’s not a huge demand for taxis, but people like to drink on Fridays…” Felicia trailed off when the driver still didn’t say anything. “Alright, then,” she muttered, and rolled down the window. “Hey, can I smoke in here?” Not expecting a response, she pulled out a new cigarette from her pack, producing a lighter from her coat pocket._

_“No smoking.”_

_Felicia jolted in surprise at the driver’s abrupt words. They were short, low and sent just about every single warning flag she had in her head waving wildly. She’d always prided herself on the accuracies of these flags--they had saved Felicia and her friends from a number of sticky situations over the years._

_Slowly lowering the cigarette from her lips, Felicia told herself to stay calm and peered out the window, praying that the area flying by would be familiar._

_To her shock and immense relief, the taxi was heading towards her house. As the driver stopped at a red light, Felicia could see her apartment building, just two buildings away. Her cat was sitting in the window, waiting to be fed. The flags were probably going up because the guy was a weirdo. He likely wasn’t actually a danger to her._

_Looking out the window, Felicia didn’t notice the way the driver twitched oddly and shuddered once. His composure completely changed within seconds, his back straightening and his shoulders squaring. His hand drifted over to the bag in the passenger seat._

_“Hey,” Felicia began, gesturing at the stoplight. “The light’s gre--”_

_She didn’t get to finish the word before the driver tasered her, the electricity coursing through Felicia’s body and making her spasm uncontrollably, mouth hanging open and eyes bulging. Breathing in short gasps, she desperately fought to regain control of her muscles, flinging her hand desperately towards the door handle. She couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t get her fingers to move, and her eyes were rolling around in her sockets, not focusing on what she needed them to._

_A rag of damp fabric was shoved into her face, over her open mouth and nose, drawing her attention away from the door. She tried to scream, but whatever was on the rag made it even harder to talk, harder to concentrate, made everything fuzzy around the edges, making movement go from difficult to impossible, and she couldn’t stop breathing the chemicals in…_

_A manic grin, filled with rotting teeth, leered down at her before it all disappeared._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> darkmoonmaiden.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuugh, I'm so sorry this took so long to write. I kept on getting stuck and not knowing what to put. But eventually I managed to get it out, and here it is! 
> 
> Next time, it won't take so long to update.

“Well, well, well,” Wilson purred, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. “Long time no see.”

Agent Parker shook his head as he sat down on the foldout chair, pressing play on the tape recorder. “I was just in here a few days ago, Mr. Wilson.”

“Any day is too long without you, baby boy,” he replied, voice sugary sweet. “I thought that idiot George had scared your pretty butt off forever.”

Parker felt his heart skip a beat at the mention of his assailant. “Is that why you made him cut out his own tongue?” he asked in a level voice, scribbling a few notes down on his notepad.

Wilson’s smile was much too toothy to be innocent. “Think of it as a gift,” he said casually, dragging the chair in his cell in front of Parker. He sat down at an appropriate distance away, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe not for you, if it makes you uncomfortable. If he kept on blabbering the way he was, he was going to end up at the bottom of Lake Shit. Man, the mouth on that Georgie-boy woulda put a sailor to shame…”

He trailed off, and Parker waited patiently for him to return from this thoughts. “Did you like the dead pigs?” he asked suddenly, eyes still glazed and staring off to the side.

“You’re talking about Harleen’s apartment,” Peter clarified.

“Gross, wasn’t it? I’m sure you were able to keep your head around the nest of snakes. But you seem more of an arachnid kind of guy to me. Did you used to have those freaky tarantulas in a glass box when you were a kid? I betcha scared your mom every day with it.”

“Were you the one who put Clarkson in the box, Mr. Wilson?” Parker asked, keeping them on topic.

“Ugh, of course not. You should know better, that’s not my modus operandi-o. I didn’t torture, I just killed. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am style. And snakes are too much of a hassle to import, lay an egg, sew in.”

“So it was postmortem you found out about his death.”

“Yup. He was already bloated and rotting and the snakes were squiggling inside of him. Are you done yet? I think it’s my turn to ask the questions now. What’s your star sign?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Peter found the corner of his mouth ticking up. “I’m a Leo.”

“Really? We’re compatible. I’m a Sagittarius. It’s fate, you should go on a date with me.”

Peter let a breathy chuckle escape. “Mr. Wilson, that’s inappropriate--and could never work. You’re in a cell in a mental hospital.”

Wade clutched at his chest dramatically. “Oh, Pete, you wound me with your cruel words. Doesn’t my love mean anything? The stars may be slightly crossed, but that shouldn’t stop us.”

“They are as crossed as they can possibly get. I’m an FBI agent and you’re not leaving your cell in the foreseeable future.”

Wade’s face abruptly turned serious. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Pete,” he said in a monotone. “You never know what could happen.” Peter tensed, his smile turning strained. Wade relaxed within an instant, relaxed smirk on his face again. “Your turn.”

Peter straightened the papers in his lap, giving himself a few moments to collect his thoughts. “Back to the topic,” he said, “you knew Clarkson was there. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Wasn’t my kill,” Wilson shrugged. “You saw it, you could see that whoever did it spent a long time getting it right. It woulda been rude of me to just barge in and ruin it for them.”

Parker didn’t try to argue with his logic. “But you know who it is. You wouldn’t care so much about a stranger’s...work.”

“Oh yeah I do. Pal of mine.”

“And you’re not going to tell me, are you, Mr. Wilson?”

“Nope. Or at least not yet.”

Peter caught on to his wording. “You’ll tell me though?” he asked cautiously.

Wilson shrugged casually. “I dunno. It all depends on what you have to offer me. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Quid pro quo.”

Quid pro quo indeed. “I’ll come up with something the next time I visit,” Peter responded, writing down a note to discuss options with Agent Fury. “Until then, what can I give you tell me more about the Skin Man?” Wade waggled his eyebrows. “If you try and pull any of those ‘sexual favors’ acts, I _will_ leave.”

Wade pouted. “You’re no fun. But you still don’t take shit from anyone. I like it.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “What was your mother’s name?”

A pause. “Mary.”

“Maiden name?”

“Fitzpatrick.”

“Hm. Irish?”

“I guess. I never asked her about her side of the family.”

Wade stared off into space. “That’s a nice name. And then Mary Parker, right? Have you ever thought about how ridiculous it is that today’s society still urges a woman to take her husband’s last name? I mean, the whole reason that started was because women were seen as a man’s property. It seems sexist that people want to keep that in place.” He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, long enough that Peter’s skin started to prickle. “You should keep looking for taxidermists and where the snakes came from. Those are good leads. Maybe even exotic reptile shows or expos or whatever they’re called. He always liked going to those things.”

Peter scribbled down the notes, mind racing at the numerous places he’d have to check out and where Agent Stark should start on compiling lists--

“Hey, have you ever been to Italy? I’ve always wanted to go. I heard it’s great.”

The conversation was filled with mostly useless information, Wilson occassionally throwing in a few important tidbits that Peter would persuade him to expand on. Most of the time, Wade would easily avoid him, chattering on about the newest topic that entered his mind. Agent Parker was slowly yet surely figuring out Wilson’s patterns of speech, what was blown out of porpotion, what was wthe truth. He had to devote his full concentration on Wilson (which may have been purposeful on the patient’s fault; Peter knew Wade was more scheming than he was letting on).

“When are you coming back?”

Peter straightened his back as their discussion came to an end, replying, “I have down that I’m supposed to come back in three days, on Friday. Is that alright with you?”

The wide grin that Wade wore sent a surprise thrill up Peter’s spine. “Fantastic,” he cheered. “That’s movie night. You can watch _The Sound Of Music_ with me on a shitty little TV that’s twenty years old.”

“I look forward to it,” Peter said dryly, going through his routine of packing his bag. “Lemme guess, they play the same movie every week?”

“Most of the time. It’s either that or _My Fair Lady_. I think Nurse MJ has a thing for musicals.”

“It’s not the worst thing you could be forced to listen to,” Peter reasoned.

“Oh ho, you listen to that damn Do Re Mi song every week and then we’ll talk, Pete.”

Peter snorted as he stood up, folding up the chair and placing it on the wall opposite of Wade’s cell. “Thank you for your cooperation to day, Mr. Wilson. I’ll make sure to talk it over with my superiors to see what we can work out about maybe getting you some more privileges here. Maybe you can get a window."

"Or a chair that doesn't disappear after visits," Wade said longingly, patting his chair. "You don't realize how much you like chairs until you're not allowed to have them."

Peter’s lips quirked into a smile. “Have a nice day, Mr. Wilson.”

“You know I won’t, Pete.”

As Peter was leaving the corridor, the gate closing behind him, Nurse Mary-Jane came up. She wore an earnest, if not exhausted, grin.

“Hey there, Agent Parker,” she said, handing a chart to her coworker. “Just finished with Mr. Wilson?”

Peter nodded. “I had some more questions for him. I’m coming back on Friday, too.”

“Ah, movie night,” she said sagely, walking with him down the hallways of the hospital. “You’re in for a treat.”

“So I’ve heard. _Sound of Music_?”

“One of the three movies that Dr. Osborn lets me show to the patients.” She gagged. “And we can’t watch _The Wizard Of Oz_ after one of them threw a fit about the Populist Party and wouldn’t stop.”

“That sounds frustrating,” Peter said sympathetically, moving to the side as two nurses escorting a patient passed by.

“ _Tell_ me about it. But at least it makes ‘em happy and less fussy. Wade, especially.” Her voice lowered, gaze darting around to assure that they were alone. “I know you’re doing it because it’s your job, but I wanted to thank you for treating Wade so nicely.”

She bit her lip. “Gosh, it sounds bad for me to be sympathizing with him--I mean, look what he did to Lisa--but he never gets any more respect than a worm does. Osborn loves tormenting him and--”

“Agent Parker!”

The nurse and agent turned around to see Dr. Osborn striding towards them, wearing his trademark, snarky grin and a tailored suit.

“Agent Parker, were you going to leave without talking to me?” he feigned hurt, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder.

Peter shifted uncomfortably, escaping the warden's grip. "Sorry, Dr. Osborn--"

"Harry, please."

"--but I'm in a hurry. My partner's waiting for me to go to an interview, and I’m already making us late.”

“Another few minutes won’t hurt. I was wondering if you’d like to come to dinner with me tonight,” Dr. Osborn said confidently, wrapping his arm insistently around Peter’s waist. Mary Jane was left behind, lost and concerned for the welfare of the young agent. “We could talk about how your sessions with Wilson are going, and you could get a well-needed rest.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Osborn,” Peter said, fake regret tinging his voice. Goosebumps raised over his skin at the other’s touch, and he once again shifted away. “I really do have to go. And I’m leaving town for a few days, so I don’t have time for dinner.”

They reached the front entrance, and Dr. Osborn pulled out his business card, pressing it into Peter’s hand. “That’s truly a shame. But here’s my number--I might be able to meet up with you wherever you are.” He winked broadly at Agent Parker, and left before the younger could give him a proper rejection. Grimacing, Parker left the building.

***

Agent Clint Barton snubbed out his cigarette as Parker approached, leaning against his car. "Hey, shortstuff. How'd it go?"

"As it always goes with Wade," Peter replied, opening the car door on the passenger side. "Wilson hitting on me, Osborn groping me. And Osborn’s starting to get really antsy about not knowing what’s going on with the interviews."

"Definitely talk to Fury about that," Barton advised, starting the car. "We should nip that in the bud before Osborn jumps to crazy conclusions or solutions for finding out. Taco Bell?"

"Not hungry," Peter mumbled, mind drifting to the detailed account of what Wade would do for Taco Bell. His stomach churned at the reminder.

"You gotta eat something. Want a milkshake and fries?"

He sighed reluctantly. “Yeah, I do.”

"Knew it. I have a second sense, man, I’m tellin’ ya. I should be on one of those psychic shows, except for food and just go around giving people food."

Peter rolled his eyes at the senior agent’s antics, pulling out his notebook and flipping through his notes. “Natasha would care to disagree.”

“She could be my bodyguard. It would be great.”

Clint made a pained sound when he saw what Peter was doing. “You _still_ use pen and paper? What about that tablet you got for your birthday? Or a laptop?”

“Writing helps me remember things,” Peter defended himself, also pulling out the tape recorder. “I still use the tablet for--”

“ _Is that a fucking tape recorder_?”

Peter choked on a laugh at Clint’s horrified shriek. “Good God, kid, do I need to stage an intervention?” he demanded. “Even Agent Old Man Rogers doesn’t use a tape recorder anymore! If Tony saw you using one of those, I’m pretty sure he’d set it on fire.”

“It’s just habit!” Peter protested. “I grew up watching my dad and uncle use one. It stuck.”

“Not a good enough excuse, kid. What flavor milkshake?”

“Chocolate.”

Clint’s phone buzzed after they had pulled through a drive-thru and were sitting in the parking lot. He groaned helplessly, showing the ID to Peter that read _Nick Fury_. “Barton,” he answered around a mouthful of fries.

When his superior spoke, Clint went alert, back straightening. “Yes, sir,” he said, gathering his unfinished food and storing it in the bag between Peter’s feet.  “We’re leaving right now.” He hung up and chucked his phone into Peter’s lap, starting the  car engine. “A new person’s been kidnapped. Follows our guy’s usual pattern. Bossman wants us there ASAP, so we’re in for a three hour drive.”

Peter nodded, his posture matching Clint’s. “Do we know anything else?” he asked.

Clint shook his head shortly.  “Fury didn’t say much, but it sounds like we don’t know much more than what we usually do. A grab ‘n go.” Peter held back a sigh of frustration. “I know, kid. It’s irritating. But get some sleep while you can; we still have a long ass day ahead of us.”

Peter knew he was right. He was feeling drowsy, which by itself was a rare occurrence, and he didn’t have any pressing, urgent work that needed to be finished. Pillowing his jacket between his head and the window, Peter drifted off.

_He dreamt of a scene that had happened so many times in his childhood._

_Sitting between Dad and Uncle Ben, he watched the two police officers with rapt attention as they transcribed their notes, stopping and starting their respective tape recorders continuously. They had headphones in, ignoring all of Peter's attempts to listen in and shooing him away from their notes. In the kitchen, Peter's mother was humming as she went over chemistry equations for her students, making her and Peter dinner._

_Uncle Ben glanced up at the clock and reached over small Peter to nudge his brother's shoulder. "Time to go, partner," he said, gathering up his things and stuffing them into his bag._

_Mom came from the kitchen, feet bare and hair down and wearing all of the effortless beauty that dazzled her husband and son. She put her hands on either side of Dad's face, giving him a kiss. "Be safe," she said, smiling. "Go catch some bad guys."_

_Dad and Uncle Ben both accepted the hugs Peter threw at them, laughing goodnaturedly as they adorned their heavy belts and boots before they left the house._

_When they were gone, Mom took Peter’s hand and led him into the kitchen, sitting him on the counter and continuing with cooking. She patiently answered the stream of questions Peter threw at her, about everything from his dad’s job to what stars were made of to why chemistry was so confusing. Being his mother for six years had taught her how to answer the questions she knew the answers to and deflect the ones she didn’t._

_Dinner came and went, and Mom was helping Peter stumble his way through a book in his bed. The phone rang, and she kissed his temple, getting up and going into the kitchen to answer--_

Peter jolted himself awake before the dream could continue, knowing how it would end. He sat up in the seat, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking deep breaths. He didn't have the luxury to wallow in old memories and long dead people when there were others, who were alive, that needed him at his full capacity.

Clint glanced away from the road. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, just...bad dream.” Peter shakily took out the tape recorder and notepad, transcribing the session with Wade Wilson to keep his mind occupied. Outside of the car, the bitter wind whipped snowflakes around in the gray air.

***

"You're nuts if you think he'd go for you."

"I thought me being nuts was the whole reason I'm here."

Dr. Osborn sent him a glare, standing up from his polished desk and striding to the large window. Wilson watched from where he stood in the center of the office, hands firmly cuffed behind him and mouth muzzled. Two guards were a few steps behind him, tense and ready to restrain him if the need arose.

“Still,” Dr. Osborn insisted, “you like him. You’re not even subtle about it.”

Wilson shrugged, trying to play it off, but the tension was still thrumming through his body. “I might a little,” he said. “Can you blame me? No other human interaction for years besides fat, old guards--no offense, buddies--and a cute brunet comes in, specifically for _me_?” This time the smirk was genuine when he saw annoyance on his warden’s face.

“He’s a successful FBI agent and you’re a patient at a mental hospital, need I remind you,” Dr. Osborn said, looking out the window to see Agent Parker move through the parking lot to his vehicle. He carefully inspected the younger’s interactions with the agent meeting him, and was satisfied to discern that they were simply colleagues, and not pursuing any kind of relationship.

“You don’t have to, doc. It’s obvious to a blind rat.”

“That’s enough comments from you,” Dr. Osborn spat, whipping around and glaring. “I’m allowing Parker to see you as a _favor_. I can declare you unstable at any second and lock you away so you’ll never see a person or daylight for the rest of your disgusting existence.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Very nice. Now let’s hear how you _really_ feel.” One of the guards choked on a laugh, and was immediately dismissed from the room by Dr. Osborn.

“Watch it, Wilson,” Dr. Osborn threatened, taking a menacing step forward.

Wade couldn’t stop himself from talking if he tried. (He didn’t try). “You have as much of a chance as I do, Harry-har. He wouldn’t give you the time of day. Don’t think _I_ haven’t seen the way you stare at his ass.”

And dear lord, did that make Wade want to crawl out of his skin. Seeing the lecherous expression Osborn would wear in the presence of Peter, like the young agent was some sort of promiscuous, scantily clad boy in a club, instead of the hardworking, dry-humored man he was. And from what he’d managed to wean out of the tight-lipped agent and seen, he’d had to deal with people not taking him seriously throughout most of his career. Peter didn’t need to take shit like that, when he was out helping people who needed it, saving people who shouldn’t be killed.

Dr. Osborn snorted derisively. “Things’ve changed, Wilson. I don’t need to listen to you. You haven’t been on the _dating scene_ ”--here there were air quotes--”in years. You might’ve been able to have a go with him--maybe even gotten a pity fuck--years ago. Now? Now you’re just some scarred psycho who’s not allowed to piss without being under surveillance.” He laughed flippantly while rage boiled in Wade’s stomach.

If only there weren’t _handcuffs_ on his wrists, Wade would be on this scumbag in a second, ripping open his chest and pulling every one of his ribs out to get his organs. He’d cook them up all nice, feed them to Osborn’s fiancee, maybe some of the guards and nurses--

“And me? I’m attractive, I have more money than I know what to do with and I’m _highly_ successful. You just can’t win.”

A muscle in Wade’s jaw twitched, but he forced himself to not let his anger show. He couldn’t let Dr. Osborn use it against him. The good doctor would use anything to isolate him, and take away his agent-seeing-privileges. Or worse, get a new agent to interview him.

Dr. Osborn smiled thinly at him. “I’ll make a deal with you, Wilson. A little bet, to keep you entertained and not killing the nurses. By the end of next week, I’m going to have Parker wrapped around my little finger and in my bed. If I do, then you tell me _everything_ you know about the Skin Man, including his identity.”

“You’re acting like I care about your stupid bets, Osborn.”

“And if I lose, and he admits he likes you, then you get to see the morning sun again for a year.”

That made Wade freeze. Dr. Osborn caught it, and snorted. “It’s up to you if you wanna play, Wilson,” he said innocently, as if he didn’t know that he had his prisoner in the bag. “Why don’t you go sit in your windowless cell and think about it?”

Dr. Osborn waved Wilson off, and the guards escorted him out of the room.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you have any questions/something you want me to write, please send me an ask: darkmoonmaiden.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH LOOK. IT'S BEEN OVER A YEAR AND I'M FINALLY UPDATING.
> 
> Seriously, guys, I'm so sorry that it took so long. I lost inspiration and motivation for this, but I finally rediscovered it, and I'm finally getting writing again :)
> 
> This chapter's a bit of a filler, just to set things up for the next chapter and the ones after that <3

“Peter.”

Blinking, Peter looked up from the papers spread out around him. Natasha was hovering over him, a coffee in her hand and wearing a tasteful suit. Her hair was pulled back into its usual bun, and her face was as stoic as it ever was when they were on a case.

“What’s up?” he said, sitting back in his chair. He gave the coffee mug a hopeful look, ignoring the numerous empty ones that littered his desk. “Is that for me?”

“Nope,” she said, popping the word out of her mouth. She took a long swig out of the cup for emphasis. “All mine. And it's the last cup." Peter groaned loudly, head lolling back.

"Then at least tell me you have some good news," he whined. Or any news, he silently added. Anything to tell him that the unsub hadn't killed Felicia yet, or that they hadn’t dragged her torn up body from some backwoods campsite.

Sighing, Natasha sat on the edge of the table. “No, nothing new,” she said, voice tinged with annoyance and regret. "Hill and Barton are finishing up their reports on the interview with Ms. Hardy's parents."

Peter felt his throat tighten reflexively at the memory of the inconsolable mother when they told her that they believed that her daughter had been kidnapped by a serial killer. No matter having done the job for years, the interviews were always the worst and still affected Peter deeply.

"Can I get transcripts of those? No doubt I can use them to strike up some kind of deal with Wilson..." Peter's voice trailed off as he started scribbling down reminders on the corner of an unimportant piece of paper.

Before he could finish, Natasha swooped down and plucked the pen out of his grip with her well-manicured hands. Peter made an indignant and confused sound, looking up at her with a hurt expression.

“You haven’t slept more than five hours in two days.” The statement was brisk and immediately told Peter where their conversation was headed.

Peter ran a hand through his wild hair. In the back of his head, he could still hear the mother of Felicia wailing and sobbing, echoing around his skull as he searched for a good excuse. “There’s no time for sleep," he weakly came up with. “Too much to do.”

“There’s always time for sleep,” she argued, harsh eyes narrowing. “And as much as I hate to say it, there’s not much for you to do right now. Take the opportunity and get some rest. We need you at 100%, and you’re not when you’re nodding off every five minutes.”

Peter’s scowl looked more like a pout, but Natasha chose not to point it out. “A body could be found at any time, and I have to be ready to go out and examine it,” he snapped back tartly.

“You’ll be the first person I call when they find something. Now go back to the hotel and sleep,” Natasha ordered. “Just for a few hours. Order room service--Nick’ll pay for it. And then you can be back bright and early, working on the case.”

“Natasha, you know I can’t do that. There’s still so much to do…” He trailed off and picked up a paper that had Felicia Hardy’s smiling face, provided by her inconsolable father and mother. “If the modus operandi stays the same, then we have less than a week until she pops up dead in a lake.”

"I'm aware, Peter," the agent responded dryly. "I've studied the case just as much as you. And I've actually gotten sleep."

Of course she had--Romanoff was the vision of a perfect agent. She always had her suits pressed without a single wrinkle, somehow even managing to change clothes every few days, and never smelled bad, like many agents did after tireless days of searching. And unlike other agents who took time off to sleep and clean themselves, she never fell behind--Romanoff was always up to date, and could be at the crime scene in a heartbeat.

"Sorry no one's as perfect as you, Nat," Peter retorted, fighting the urge to stick out his tongue.

Seeming to sense the urge, the corner of her lips twitched upwards into a smirk. “I’m aware,” she said dryly.

They were distracted momentarily when a tired cop carried a loud, drunken man to one of the jail cells. He was obviously struggling, the drunkard continuously trying to lay down on any flat surface and whining when he was pulled back upright. The two agents watched the interaction with faint amusement before the duo disappeared around the corner.

Natasha stood up. “I would suggest you go back to your room,” Natasha finished saying, “before I lock you in a closet.”

Peter winced, rubbing the back of his neck. Normal people would probably have taken that as an empty threat, but Peter and the rest of the team had seen the numerous times she’d bodily dragged Tony into a room and locked him in until he’d gotten a full night’s sleep. It was her own, unique way of showing that she cared for her team--given the chance, any of them would be willing to go until they passed out to save someone’s life. Agent Fury dryly called them superhumans, much to Tony’s delight.

“Yeah, okay,” Parker grumbled, closing Felicia’s file and carefully putting it in his bag. “I’ll go back to the hotel.”

“You need a ride?” she offered, finishing her coffee and tossing the paper cup into the trashcan.

“Nah, I’ll just walk over there. I’m not too far.”

Agent Romanov nodded, and went back to her work. Peter finished gathering his things into his bag and left the police station. The birds were already starting to chatter in the trees, even though the sun hadn’t started to rise yet, and the streets were dead. Peter walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, reflexively staring down the bushes and checking behind him. There was no one there, of course, but he’d grown paranoid after seeing numerou kidnapping cases where people were simply grabbed off the street.

The hotel secretary smiled at him when he came in, and Peter offered her a tired grin before making his way to the elevator. The sky was a dark blue by the time he opened his hotel door, dimly lighting the small room. Peter went through the motions of his bedtime routine, setting the files and his laptop on the hotel desk before hanging his suit and washing off the grime of the past few days in the shower. He’d learned early on that he needed to take advantage of every opportunity to have a shower--he and the rest of the team could go days without having time to relax and worry about personal hygiene.

When he was done, Peter pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pants before curling up on the bed. The sky had lightened more, and he could see the outlines of the furniture in the room.

His mind refused to rest, but Peter forced himself to close his eyes. Natasha was right--he needed at least some rest if he wanted to be able to work at one hundred percent. He wasn’t any good to the team when he was nodding off at crime scenes or forgetting important details.

Sighing, Peter stared at the ceiling and thought about Wade Wilson. Because he’d been called back to the newest crime scene, someone else was taking his place in the next interview. Steve Rogers was definitely a talented and experienced agent, but Wilson had made it very clear that he was only going to be cooperative if Peter was the one who was doing the interview. He just hoped that Steve’s charms would work their magic and loosen Wade’s lips a bit more than Peter had been able to.

Peter threw an arm over his eyes, turning away from the window. He hoped that Wilson would be at least the tiniest bit cooperative with Steve--they couldn’t afford to waste any time with roundabout, ridiculous answers while Felicia was still missing.

***

Felicia cried out in frustration and pain as her grip slipped and she tumbled into a heap back at the bottom of the hole.

Felicia swallowed back a frustrated scream, tasting blood in the back of her mouth. She clenched her fist, the pain of her broken nails clearing her head. She pushed herself back into a sitting position with shaky arms--she hadn’t eaten since she’d gotten there, and the mixture of hunger, fear and adrenaline left her weak and dizzy. Her high heels had long been banished to the other side of the hole after she’d nearly twisted her ankle trying to stand with her unsteady legs.

God, she couldn’t think with this _godawful_ music playing. She'd never been a fan of 80s music, and she certainly wasn't now. The upbeat and rhythmic music thrummed in her bones, making her head pound and jaw grind subconsciously. It completely blocked out all other noises, leaving Felicia feeling even more isolated and helpless.

She stared at the walls of the hole, again searching for any sort of divot in the stone that she could use as a foot- or handhold. The walls were depressingly smooth, and Felicia quickly gave up.

Feeling sobs bubble up in the back of her throat, Felicia brought her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead on them. She tried to ignore the pain throbbing from her broken nails and the scrapes on her knees.

She blindly grabbed one of her shoes and threw it at the ceiling, only to have it not even make it out of the hole, hitting the wall and bouncing back down.

"Let me out of here, you  _asshole_!" Felicia screamed hoarsely.

Unable to hear her screams in the other room, the man sang under his breath to a song that wasn’t the one playing. His hands moved with practiced ease, the needle moving through the leather methodically. The different colored furs looked odd right now, but he knew that when he was done, they would compliment each other beautifully.

Finishing the last few stitches on the part he was working on, the man made a knot in the thick thread and snipped the leftovers off. He sat back in his stool, admiring the fine stitching. If it weren’t for the odd placement of the head and the contrast of furs, it would almost look like the goat’s head belonged on the lion’s body, nestled next to the beast’s head.

Taking off his latex gloves, the man stood up from his desk and started heading up the stairs. He slowed down when he passed the door leading to the room his victim was in, listening to her hoarse screams. He let out a quick breath, a sound that could almost be considered a chuckle. He closed the door and continued up the stairs.

***

All traces of Steve’s winning smile had dissipated over an hour into the interview with Wade.

Could it even be called an interview, though? Wade had refused to say anything important or even vaguely relating to the questions that Steve posed for him. In fact, the only question that Wade _had_ answered was the sarcastic, ire-filled question about his love of cats, which started a ten minute, one-sided discussion about feline pregnancies.

The wildly jumping thoughts and babbling could have been infinitely fascinating, if Steve had at least one or two answers or useful thoughts to write down and give to his boss and wasn’t on a strict timetable. As it stood, Steve’s notebook was blank, and the orderlies were starting to hint that maybe he should just leave. The agent politely ignored them, determined to have at least one solid clue to where they should be searching next.

Even from the beginning, Wade had been difficult. He’d been suspicious from the moment Rogers had sat down in front of him, the agent wearing a polite smile and pulling out a pad of paper and a fountain pen.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilson,” Rogers had greeted him.

“Where’s Peter?” Wade had whined. “I want Petey.”

“Agent _Parker_ ,” Steve stressed the use of his last name, “is currently busy with a crime scene. I was sent to interview you instead.”

Wade groaned loudly, head lolling back. “But you’re so _boring._ Lookit how you’re all neatly in your lil’ suit and how your golden hair is perfectly cut. I mean, dayum, you’re handsome and your muscles look like they’re gonna jump out of your suit, but you don’t have a fun bone in your body.”

“I do,” Steve said defensively. “I’m just able to separate my work and private lives. But we’re not here to talk about this. What can you tell me about the killer’s location?”

“Nothing.”

“The way you acted with Agent Parker made it seem like you know a lot about it,” Steve tried to persuade him. “He told me that you even specifically said you did.”

“That traitor,” Wade grumbled, hunching his back and crossing his arms. “I thought that that was one of our secrets, man. I’m so offended.” He muttered something else under his breath before snapping his attention back to the agent. “Who’re you, anyway?”

“I’m FBI Agent Steve Rogers,” he introduced himself. “I’m Agent Parker’s colleague--”

“Good Zeus, your _name_ is even good-two-shoes,” Wilson burst out. “You’re, like, America’s little poster boy, aren’t you? With your shiny blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. I bet you’ve never even had a speeding ticket, _ugh_.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Rogers hadn’t, but he definitely wasn’t going to admit that to the ex-mercenary. “I’m just going to ask you some questions relating to the ongoing case,” he continued. “It’s going to be the same setup that you’ve had in the past few interviews.”

“It’s not, since my _Petey_ isn’t here,” Wilson grumbled spitefully. He waved an imperious hand at the agent, signalling that he could continue if Steve felt the need to.

That’s when things started to go downhill startlingly fast, and Steve found himself sitting forward in his seat in agitation and his hair mussed from running his fingers through it numerous times out of frustration.

He bit out a sigh, counting backwards from ten in his head. “I’m going to ask you this one more time, Wilson,” he said when he reached zero. “Do you know. Who our target is?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But you won’t be the one to find out--Petey will.”

“Peter’s going to be upset if you don’t give us anything,” Steve tried for the last time, throwing his hands up helplessly.

“He’ll have to tell me that in person,” Wade grinned cheekily. He obviously saw that the agent was at the end of his rope. “I guarantee that he’ll still love me. Besides, he’s gonna get the info, so he won’t be that upset.”

With that final comment, Steve finally felt his patience snap, and he stood up. “I’m going to call this interview done for the day,” he said firmly, shuffling his papers back into the folder. A part of him seethed at having to admit defeat, but years of experience told him that he was just wasting his time bickering with the man.

Wade looked up at him in surprise. “What? Why? We were just starting to get to know each other.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Wilson,” Steve continued. Down the hall, they heard the buzzer as the door opened and a nurse came in. “We’ll let you know when the next interview will be, and unless you cooperate with us, that will be the final interview.”

Wilson stared at him, his jaw hanging loosely. “No way! You totally can’t stop sending Petey out here. There’s still _so much_ that I know.”

“If you refuse to give us this information, then you’re going to be considered no longer an asset, and the interviews will stop being a priority.”

Steve calmly turned around and started heading towards the exit as Wade angrily called after him that his beautifully chiseled face was made out of _lies_ and _assholery_.

He internally congratulated himself on the ultimatum as he exited the secure area. While Wilson’s obsession with Parker was highly concerning and left a bad taste in the back of his mouth, he wasn’t afraid to use it to the Bureau’s advantage. Especially as they reached the third day marker, and they were still incredibly far from finding Ms. Hardy.

He passed the nice redheaded nurse from earlier, the one who had warned him of Wilson’s unwillingness to cooperate. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “No luck?” she asked knowingly.

“Nothing really helpful this time ‘round,” he said regretfully.

“I’m sorry, Agent Rogers,” she said. “He’s as stubborn as an ox when he wants to be, and that’s most of the time. I’m shocked that he’s even letting you and Pet--Agent Parker talk to him.” Steve nodded in agreement. “I’ll make sure to keep my ears open, though. If he says anything, I’ll get it to you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Have a good day.”

Dr. Osborne was waiting in the Main Hall for the agent, wearing a slimy smile and leaning against a pillar.

“How was your interview, Agent Rogers?” he greeted pleasantly, walking leisurely over to where Steve was signing out at the reception desk.

“Enlightening in numerous ways, but not in ways that are useful,” Rogers sighed heavily, shaking his head. He had a new admiration for Parker--how the young agent managed to keep his cool enough to garner the appreciation of Wilson was unbelievable.

Dr. Osborne tsked in a sympathetic manner. “You never know how these people are going to be,” he simpered. “One day, they’re as sweet as can be, and the next, they’re trying to kill the nurses. You know how it is.”

Agent Rogers smiled tightly, handing his visitor’s badge to the nurse behind the desk. “I guess,” he responded elusively. “I’m going to head back to the station now--”

“If you would give me a few minutes of your time, Agent Rogers,” Dr. Osborne cut in, grabbing his upper arm. Rogers raised an eyebrow warningly, and the doctor was quick to let go and smile apologetically. “I’m writing a book concerning Wilson, and I was wondering if I could record the interviews your team’s conducting.”

Ah, it was this again. Peter had warned Rogers about Dr. Osborne’s attempts to gain information about Wilson. He gave the doctor a winning smile. “I’m sorry, Dr. Osborne, but the information discussed is sensitive and currently classified. You’re welcome to talk to Director Fury about possibly gaining access to them when our target is caught.”

He could practically see Dr. Osborne tuning him out halfway through his speech. “I was hoping to _avoid_ talking to the higher ups,” Dr. Osborne admitted flippantly. “You know how they can get--it’s all about personal gain and the like.” Steve barely managed to hold back a disbelieving laugh.

“That doesn’t change that they’re of a highly sensitive nature, and need to be kept under wraps until this case is over and done with,” Steve tried to explain again.

“These interviews are such  _valuable_ and _intriguing_ things, though,” Dr. Osborne tried, and Steve felt his annoyance rise. “They would offer a fascinating look into a deranged mind.”

Steve’s back straightened. “These interviews are being done to find a mass murderer and a missing woman,” he said tightly, face emotionless. “They’re not meant to be a source of entertainment for the public. And as Wade’s primary doctor, I would hope that you have a thorough understanding of how his mind works.”

Dr. Osborne’s face contorted with barely contained rage. “You’re welcome to leave now, Agent Rogers,” he said behind a toothy grin. “I’m sorry for taking up more of your _time_.”

Rogers didn’t need to be told twice. Nodding, he strode out of the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and sticking around for this long. Comments and kudos are much appreciated.
> 
> I changed my tumblr URL, so if you have any comments/prompts (please send some!)/questions, message me at: continuitygains.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait! I kept getting a bit stumped on this chapter and wanted to add so many things :)
> 
> There might be some grammatical errors, but I've read through this about nine times and I just need to call it done :'D

Mary Jane sighed heavily, unpinning her red hair and letting it fall down her shoulders.

“Long day?” Gwen asked sympathetically, pulling off her scrubs and reaching for her regular clothes.

“Mrs. Jones threw her food at me three times today, and then two other patients got into a fistfight,” she said sourly, unlocking her locker and grabbing her purse. “I just can’t wait to get home and watch some mind numbing TV before conking out.”

“Aw, I was going to ask if you wanted to come out for some drinks tonight, but I like your idea better.”

MJ chuckled. “Maybe this weekend. It’s been ages since we’ve gotten together…”

Her voice trailed off when one of the other nurses burst into the locker room, lips pursed tightly and back rigid. She barely acknowledged the other two nurses, heading straight for her locker and pulling out her things. MJ and Gwen shared a concerned look before approaching her.

“Hey, Carla, is everything okay?” Gwen tentatively asked.

“Yes, I’m just--I’m really frustrated and freaked out,” she exploded, setting down her purse. She turned to face them. “That new nurse has me on edge, and I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Who?”

Carla sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Harry. Osborne’s son. He’s been following me around all day, trying to get access to the high security ward. I kept telling him that I couldn’t do that, but he kept pushing and pushing, and almost _threatening_ me.”

“That’s so weird,” MJ said, lowering her voice. “He was trying to get the same thing from me a few days ago, when he first started and I was training him. I tried asking him why he wanted in there, but he wouldn’t give me an actual answer. He stopped talking to me as soon as the training was over, and I’d thought he’d given up, but apparently he’d just moved on to you.” She gave Carla an apologetic look.

“Yeah, lucky me,” she laughed bitterly. “Well, let’s hope he’ll leave me alone now. Jack agreed to let him in for a bit to serve lunch.”

MJ snorted. “He can have that job for as long as he likes,” she muttered, hearing Gwen grunt in agreement. She’d had the food thrown back at her so many times that she’d lost count, and she’d made it a habit of wearing an extra shirt over her scrubs to take off when it got messy.

They left the locker rooms, calling out goodbyes to the night guard as they exited the building and stopped at the bottom of the front steps.

“I’m parked in the other lot,” Carla said, pulling out her car keys from her purse.

“Do you need us to walk you there?” MJ offered. “It’s totally no problem.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll see you guys on Monday.”

“Hey, be safe, okay?” Gwen said, grabbing Carla’s arm before she could walk away. Her pretty face was more serious than usual. “There are a lot of weirdos out right now. I don’t want you getting attacked.”

Carla gave the other girls a comforting smile. “I will,” she promised. She raised her keychain and jangled it, bringing attention to the pink bottle that was hanging from it and smirking. “Went out and bought some pepper spray, and it hasn’t left my side since.”

MJ chuckled, giving her a thumbs up of approval. She couldn’t lie that it didn’t relax some of the tension in her stomach to see that the flamboyant nurse had some kind of form of defense. Carla grinned, showing her dimples, and called another goodbye before going to the other parking lot.

MJ and Gwen walked together in silence to their cars. They reached Mary Jane’s first, the convertible parked as close as the staff could park.

“You be safe, too,” MJ ordered her friend. “There’s too much weird stuff going on around here lately, and I don’t like it.” The sudden interviews with Wade Wilson had her and the other nurses on edge, making the serial killer on the loose feel uncomfortably close. It soothed her somewhat to have spoken with and befriended Agent Parker and seeing the determination he had in finding the Skin Man.

Gwen nodded and called a goodbye before going to her car.

***

After Rogers left, Wilson had descended into a silent panic.

They wouldn’t actually stop sending his Petey, would they? It’d been so long since he’d had someone so interesting in his life. He’d never had a companion like Peter, a man whose sour sense of humor was like a breath of fresh air from the simpering attitudes of everyone else around him.

He leaned back, letting out an angry breath. So maybe he'd been toying with them too much, he grudgingly admitted to himself. He needed to give them some more information, or else they really _would_ lose interest in him, thinking him to be a lost cause.

If he wanted to keep seeing Peter, he was going to somehow need to give information but still give them the runaround, so the agent would still be forced to come back. If he told them too much too soon, they'd send the cute FBI agent away without a goodbye, and that wasn't acceptable. But maybe he’d throw them a bone and give them a bit more information than usual the next meeting…

There was the sound of the guards buzzing someone into the area, no doubt yet another nurse. The plain clock on the wall outside of his cell said that it was just about to be lunchtime. Sure enough, he heard the clattering of the car, along with loud whistling as the orderly dished out whatever was for lunch to the inmates.

After a few moments, the nurse stopped in front of his cell. He expected to hear the familiar voice of Nurse Mary Jane cheerily greeting him, but the greeting never came. Instead, there was silence.

He twisted around and frowned up at the nurse. This certainly wasn’t Mary Jane. It was a Friday, and Mary Jane always had Friday lunches. The man in front of him was still wearing the white scrubs of a nurse, though, and was sporting a wide, slightly manic grin. It must’ve been her day off, or something.

He went back to staring at the wall, waiting for the nurse to slip him his food and move on to the next cell. When he didn’t hear the telltale sounds of a tray sliding through the opening, he looked back up to see the man still standing their, expression unchanged.

“Uh, can I help you?” Wade asked awkwardly. “Can’t you see I’m busy brooding here?”

“You’re Wade Wilson.”

“What clued you in? The nametag outside of my room? Your clipboard?” Good lord, what was up with this weirdo? _Obviously_ he was Wade Wilson.

The man didn’t take offense though, instead laughing. “I'm glad to see you haven't lost your snark.” He lowered his voice. “I wasn’t sure what you were gonna be like, since they locked you up…”

“Of course I’m not gonna change,” Wade snorted. “I don’t think there’s anything short of a lobotomy that’s gonna change me up.”

The man laughed again, sounding delighted. Wade paused, and glanced closer at the man, seeing the way he was staring intently at Wade with adoring eyes. Everything clicked, and Wade scoffed.

_It’s one of_ those _people_.

The number of people who had become obsessed with him since his high-profile arrest and trial was startling and frankly disturbing. The love letters and people who had tried to sneak into the hospital had been entertaining and flattering at first, but then became an annoyance as they kept streaming in. It seemed one of them had finally managed to get smart and figure out a way to actually get to him.

“Okay, look, whaddaya want?” Wade asked impatiently. “I can’t give you an autograph because they don’t let me near any pens, because of an accident that _totally_ was not my fault--”

“I know,” the nurse interrupted, eyes sparkling. “With Eric, the orderly. You stabbed him in the eye four times and the side twice with a pen before breaking his arm.” Admiration dripped from his voice.

Wade paused for a moment. “Alright then,” he said slowly, elongating the words. “So what do you want? If it’s for a mission, then just leave, because I sure as hell can’t exactly take on any new assignments right now. They don’t really let patients like me leave willy-nilly to go kill some people.”

The nurse’s eyes flashed. “But what if I _could_ get you out of here?” he asked suddenly. “Would you still take on missions and stuff?”

“Duh,” Wade snorted. “I can’t really just go and be a bartender somewhere, can I? There’s not much else for me to do.”

“Well, I have connections within the hospital. The guards and some of the higher ups. The _highest_ higher ups.”

Finally, Wade started to pick up that the nurse was being _serious_ with the discussion, and they weren’t just talking hypotheticals.

“That’s impressive and all, and I’d be grateful as hell, but what exactly do _you_ get out of this?” Wade asked. “Out of me being outta here?”

“I get to see more of your work,” the nurse answered immediately. “I get to see you in action, and not just the old videos. And I want to hire you, to kill my father.”

Well, the guy didn’t do his obsessions halfway, Wade would give him that. But points were deducted for the clichéd ‘kill my father’ phrase.

“I guess that’s what fanatics like you dream about, isn’t it?” Wade hummed, arms crossed as he eyed the guy. “Killing ol’ daddy for whatever reason and getting to see your favorite serial killer in action. Look, kid—wait, what’d you say your name was?”

Wade was all for getting out of here, but he felt like the kid needed to understand the illegality and immorality of the situation. But now that he took a closer look at the nurse, the familiarity he felt from before scratched at the back of his mind. Something about the nose…and eyes…

The nurse grinned at him. “Harry,” he said. “Harry Osborn.”

A slow grin grew over Wade’s face. “Oh, we’re gonna have some fun, you and I.”

***

“You seem unhappy today.”

Wade hummed questioningly, glancing up with hooded eyes from where he was resting his chin in his hand. “What was that, baby boy?” he asked, not sitting up. “I wasn’t listening.”

“I said you seem unhappy today,” Peter repeated, crossing one leg over another. “What’s got you in such a funk?”

The patient shrugged flippantly. “I’m not sad,” he said lightly. “In fact, I've got a lot to be happy about. There’s a new nurse to harass, I’m pretty sure they upped my meds, and I get to see your beautiful face. It’s a great day.” Wade gave him a blinding grin, and Peter found it difficult not to smile back. “Plus, I wasn’t sure if I was going to see you again. That blond He-Man yesterday was talkin’ some shit.”

It seemed like what Rogers had said had apparently affected Wilson, Peter thought to himself. Rogers had already told Peter that the meeting from the other day hadn’t gone over so well, and that he had resorted to threatening Wilson. The older agent had been concerned that his actions might end up making the situation harder for Peter, and Wilson more volatile than usual.

“What did he say?” Peter asked, wanting to hear it from Wilson’s perspective.

“He was telling me how I was never going to see you again if I didn’t start talking.”

“Well, that’s not really talking sh--lying,” Peter quickly corrected himself. Wade’s whole face lit up at the curse that had almost managed to escape. “If you don’t give me information, then there’s no reason for me to show up.”

Wade huffed, pouting. “I know that, but I don’t like being _threatened_.”

“Mr. Wilson, it’s practically the only tactic that has seemed to work with getting you to actually talk.”

“It’s definitely not the _only_ way,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “You’d be shocked at how much info I could give you if you gave me a few kisses or cuddles.”

“I imagine I would,” Peter said, deadpan. “Did you mention a new nurse?” He hadn’t heard anyone else mention a new nurse, especially not one that was working directly with Wilson. (And he was searching for anything to change the direction of the conversation away from romantic).

“Yeah, some new guy with dumb floppy hair and a smug little face,” Wade said, rolling his eyes. “Super snotty. I can’t wait to see his face when that wacko down a few cells throws his shit at him.” He cackled.

Unphased, Peter hummed and wrote down a quick note to ask Osborn about the new nurse when he got the chance.

“Did I ever tell you about that guy down in Nevada a few years back? The one with the weird sway in his walk and who had a fake English accent? Because he totally reminds me of the new guy--”

“We have to focus here, Wade,” Peter insisted, holding up his pad of paper. “I don’t have time to just sit and chat all day.”

“As long as I tell you what you need eventually, you do,” Wade smirked. “We had this discussion last time, didn’t we? Quid pro quo, and all that pretentious Latin.”

Peter couldn’t fight back the urge to roll his eyes. “Fine. What would you like to know, Mr. Wilson? And what information do I get in turn for answering it?”

“It depends on how well you answer the question.”

“That’s not fair,” Peter interjected. “I don’t have any idea what you consider to be a ‘good enough’ answer.”

“Eh, you can figure it out. I have faith in you.”

Peter settled further into his chair, crossing one leg over the other and raising an eyebrow, encouraging Wilson to get on with it. He swallowed nervously, waiting for whatever question Wilson was going to throw at him.

Wade hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

“What’s your favorite kind of food, Petey?” he asked. “I love Mexican. I could live off of chimichangas for the rest of my life. But they don’t serve them here, _ugh._ ” He scrunched his nose in disgust. “That’s one of the worst things about this place. Anything that’s not bland and tasteless isn’t allowed to be served.”

Peter nearly let out a disbelieving laugh. _That_ was what Wade was going to ask? Out of all of the possible questions he’d thought would be thrown at him, this one definitely caught him off guard.

He composed himself and shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t really have one,” he lied.

Wade pouted. “That’s a boring answer,” he whined. “Whatever. I’ll give you a pass this time, but gimme actual answers. What’s the number one place you wanna visit? Or favorite animal? Have you ever been to Vancouver? It’s beautiful this time of year.” Peter had a vague recollection that there had been four dismembered bodies found in Vancouver that had all been connected back to Wilson.

“There’s no real point in talking about that stuff,” he told him, giving up any pretense that he was taking notes by closing his notebook. “What I like shouldn’t mean anything to you, because you can’t do anything with that information.”

Wade gave him a wide grin. “I just like knowing about you,” he said, the truthfulness surprising Peter. “And it sorta helps remind me that there’s still a world out there, that _normalness_ , even if it’s overrated, still exists, y’know?” The usual smirk on his face was gone, replaced by an expression that was almost longing, an emotion Wade hadn’t allowed Peter to see up until this point.

Peter stayed quiet for a few moments as he digested the new information. “I want to visit Paris someday,” he finally said, seeming to startle the man. “And I love Indian food. I could eat it for days. There’s this restaurant by where I grew up that I used to go to every weekend with my aunt and uncle.”

“Not your parents?”

Peter bit back a sigh. “My mom and dad died when I was six,” he explained. “I went and stayed with my aunt and uncle after it happened.”

Wade nodded, looking at Peter with clear blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “That must have been tough.”

Peter shrugged, clearing his throat. “It’s okay. They’re the best people in the world, and helped me through it.”

“What are they like?”

“Ah, ah, ah, not until you tell _me_ something,” Peter said, triumph leaking into his voice. “Why did the Skin Man use snakes?”

“Think psychology, Mr. FBI agent,” Wade shrugged. “What do snakes represent?”

Peter sighed, leaning back and thinking. “I mean, when they’re in dreams, Freud thinks they have to do with phallic desires, but Jungian psychology thinks it has to do with not taking the direct route towards a goal. Or something like that.”

“Alright, scratch the psychology and think symbolically. The shedding of the skin? Hm?”

“Well, change,” Peter said. “Shedding one personality in exchange for another, or wanting to. Or maybe even his body? Is he transgender?”

“Not transgender,” Wade denied. “Your close on the personalities, though. Not necessarily shedding them, though.”

Peter thought harder. “Does he just change his personality whenever he wants, then?” That could make sense on how he hadn’t been found by anyone yet. If he was an expert at hiding his emotions or intentions, then it’d be difficult for the people around him to notice anything wrong and report it.

Wade gave him a coy smile. “Yeah, something like that,” he said. “Also, there’s not really much symbolism behind the snakes. I think he just really likes them.”

“What? Then why the hell--”

“What’s your hotel like? I used to love hotels. I made my clients pay for the nicest ones possible whenever I was on a job.”

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath to control his anger.

“Well, I’m not going to actually tell you where I’m staying,” Peter said, voice tight, “but I’ll tell you it’s decent. Not anything worth writing home about, but we don’t spend much time in the hotel, so I’m not upset about it. Plus, the coffee’s great.”

“Oh my god, you get great coffee? I demand that you sneak some in for me. The coffee here is literal _sludge_.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Peter grimaced, remembering the coffee that MJ had snuck him before the interview.

“Your killer’s also a fan of coffee,” Wade offered. “Sometimes. Other times he hates it. Always depends on what side of the bed he woke up on in the morning.”

It seemed like an innocuous, little detail, but Peter was learning quickly that all of the small things from Wilson were important. He didn’t know Wilson’s plan, or what the end goal was, but he knew that it was being orchestrated down to every single detail. The innocent and unstable exterior that Wilson projected seemed genuine, but Peter knew that he wasn’t as dumb as he played.

“I can ask a question now, right? It’s my turn?”

“I didn’t ask a question,” Peter responded.

“But I gave you some information. It was even relevant to the topic.”

“Fine.”

“Why did you join the FBI?”

Peter hesitated only for a moment. “My uncle was a police officer, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps,” he said. “It seemed like a logical career choice for me.”

“Aw, following in his footsteps,” Wade cooed. “Becoming a _noble_ slave of the law. And you talk about your uncle a lot, and not your parents. Is it because you don’t remember them, or because it’s still a painful topic?”

“I’ve just lived longer with my uncle and aunt, is all,” Peter responded, feeling another twinge of annoyance. It made him uncomfortable to have to share details about his family with the man. “I have more stories to tell about them than with my parents. What about _your_ parents?”

That obviously struck some kind of nerve. Wade’s face suddenly went emotionless, making Peter’s blood run cold. Almost as soon as the expression appeared, though, it was gone, replaced by a smirk. “Asking about my parents? Geeze, try and be a little more stereotypical, why don’tcha. I’ve heard that question at least a thousand times from therapists.”

“Alright, then I’ll ask a different question,” Peter said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “When and where did you meet the unsub for the first time?”

“That’s _two_ questions.”

“Then I’ll let you ask me two questions.”

“Or, can I ask an intense question?” Wade’s grin was playful now, in a way that spoke of eminent pain. “Something that you have to answer.”

“I’m not going to answer a question that I don’t want to,” Peter told him shortly. “How about this: when was the first time you found one of our unsub’s victims?”

Wade pouted, crossing his arms. He didn’t answer for a moment, grumbling under his breath. “That’s a bit of a hard question to answer,” he finally said.

“Elaborate.”

Wade glanced up and grinned. “Starting to learn how to play the game now, are we?” he taunted. “I found parts. Sewed up with other parts from another person. I guess it was...seven years ago now?”

Peter startled, accidentally scribbling on the paper. “ _Seven years_?” he clarified in disbelief.

Wade nodded. “Somewhere around that. Messy as fuck--I don’t think you could even count it as a full body, and the stitches were barely holding together. Four arms, no dick…” He shivered in disgust.

They hadn’t been able to come up with an exact timeline for the Skin Man, but there had been some evidence that he’d been at it for a while. Up until now, the team had been assuming that he had only been active for a year, two tops. Apparently, that wasn’t the case. They could hopefully identify some more victims, now, and hopefully be able to see more of a pattern.

“Now, _my_ question,” Wade interrupted his thinking. “How did your parents die, Petey?”

Peter’s hand curled reflexively around the edge of the clipboard, and he swallowed tightly. Wade’s sharp eyes bore into him, not revealing any kind of emotion or a hint of what he was thinking.

“That’s not an appropriate question to ask me,” he said smoothly.

“Inappropriate questions are the best kind to ask, _Agent_ Parker,” Wade responded, grin shark like.

“What will you tell me if I answer that?” Peter shot back. “It'd better be something highly important for a question like that. Or I'm just going to ignore it and move on.”

“Importance is a relative term,” Wade snorted. “C’mon, don’t you wanna live life on the wild side? Get a little _risky_?”

“I’m not going to answer that question only for you to tell me that our unsub likes to eat his toast unbuttered,” Peter snapped, trying to get rid of the tension building in his body. He didn’t want to give Wilson any satisfaction in seeing how much the conversation was bothering him.

Wade scowled. “That’s _boring_ ,” he whined. “Ugh. Have you guys at least found a guy to look at the snakes yet? I can never remember the name of those scientists. Zoologists? Yeah, that’s it.”

“We’ve been talking to various taxidermists and reptile specialists, but we haven’t gotten much beyond discovering the species of snake and that they’re not local to the United States.” Peter studiously ignored the shiver that came with the thought about how close he’d been to such a deadly type of snake. “We’re still searching for the supplier, or how the snakes got into the country.”

“Ah ha, finally doing some work,” Wade said approvingly. “You Feds are getting better at doing your jobs.”

“It’d be a lot easier to do our jobs if you were cooperating,” Peter retorted, raising a daring eyebrow at the man on the other side of the plastic wall. “Because I’m almost positive you know how those snakes got into the country.”

“I might,” Wade said evasively, absently swaying from side to side. “I don’t know anything about your parents, though.”

Rage bubbled up in Peter’s chest but he quickly quelled it. “My father was shot in the line of duty,” he responded shortly, almost mechanically. “He went to deal with a robbery at a gas station, and the man panicked and shot him. He was dead before the paramedics showed up. My mom was killed when she ran into the middle of the street to get away from a mugger.”

He didn’t want to think about it. He wouldn’t admit that it was _him_ who had been the one to run, and she’d only raced after him when she saw that he was heading into the street. She’d pushed him with all of her might out of the way, but was struck by the car, body flying. She’d laid in a heap in the street, arm and leg mangled in odd ways and the skin ripped off from the cruel concrete. The car didn’t hesitate to reverse and then screech away, leaving Peter to wail and scream over the limp body of his dying mother.

“There’s more to that story,” Wade said softly, breaking Peter away from his thoughts. He was staring at Peter with his soft blue eyes, keeping his scarred face emotionless and nonjudgmental. “Will you tell me it?”

“No,” Peter said quickly, sitting up straighter. He cursed himself for showing how easily he was rattled at the simple question, and that Wade was able to pick up on it so quickly. “Now it’s your turn. Where can we find where the snakes came from?”

Wade rubbed his chin. “Go talk to my good friend Weasel,” Wade said.

“Weasel?” Peter frowned, jotting down the name. “Does he have a last name?”

“Dunno. I never asked. But he knows a lot about reptiles, and owes me a few favors that I can still cache in. Just tell him I sent you—he’ll help you out. He’s working in a warehouse a couple hours from here.” He rattled off an address, which Peter quickly scribbled down.

“There. How’s _that_ for being helpful?” he asked triumphantly, smirking.

“It’s definitely a start,” Peter said, voice almost teasing. “We’ll see how everything pans out.”

Wade chuckled, smiling back at Peter. The young agent found himself getting a bit distracted and a small smile building on his face. Realizing what he was doing, Peter snapped to attention.

“Well, that’s it for today,” Peter finally blurted, moving smoothly up from his seat. “I probably won’t be able to come visit for a bit--things are getting a bit busy and heated down at the station.”

Wade pouted. “That’s a shame,” he sighed before shrugging flippantly. “Oh well. See ya next time.”

Peter froze for a moment, and then continued putting his things away, slower than before. He kept his eyes trained on Wade, but the ex-mercenary seemed content to lay down with his arms under his head and stare at an invisible point on the wall.

As he left, Peter couldn’t shake the unease from his stomach. Something wasn’t right--Wade wasn’t acting like his usual self. Every other time he’d come, Wade had whined and complained for him to stay for at least five more minutes, that he might just let lose some vital information if Peter would sit back down (and maybe take off his shirt).

Peter frowned, staring hard at the floor and oblivious to where he was going until he walked straight into someone. He let out a startled yelp and stumbled back, the contents of his bag upturning and spreading over the ground.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

The orderly that Peter had run into crouched down, stuffing Peter’s things back into his bag with him.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Peter assured him, giving him an absent smile.

He clipped his bag back shut when he saw that everything on the floor had been picked up, and started walking back towards the exit, already lost in his thoughts again. He didn’t notice when the nurse slipped something into his pocket before walking towards the break room.

Now in the car, Peter pulled out his phone and dialed Steve’s number, setting up the Bluetooth so he could drive with both hands. He anxiously waited for the man to pick up.

_“Steve_ ,” The man answered tightly.

“Hey, it’s Peter,” he said.

“ _Please tell me you have something good to say,_ ” the man begged.

“Oh, I most certainly do,” Peter said triumphantly. “Wilson gave me the name of a guy who might be able to tell us more about the snakes. I think he’s some kind of exotic pet dealer or something. Probably not legal, since Wilson called him a good friend. He might have been the one to sell the snake eggs.”

Steve made a startled noise on the other end of the line.

“ _Did he give us an address?_ ” Steve asked eagerly.

“Yeah, and he said to ask for Weasel.” Peter fumbled around in his bag, pulling out his notebook to rattle off the address for the senior agent. He heard the older man relay the information to someone else before returning to Peter.

“ _Did he only tell you ‘Weasel?’”_

“Yeah, that was the only name he gave me,” Peter said apologetically.

Steve sighed heavily, muttering something under his breath about how difficult it was going to be to track him down. There was still a pleased note in his voice, though, at finally having an exact person to find.

“Wilson said to make sure to tell the man that it was him who sent us,” Peter added.

“ _Are you sure this is an actual lead?_ ”

Peter pondered for a second before responding. “I think it is,” he said. “Wilson was definitely making it out to be something big and important. Even if it doesn’t give us the information he says it will, the visit will somehow be important, I’m sure it will.”

_“Good. Was there anything else_?”

Peter went over the bombshell that Wilson had dropped about when the Skin Man had first started killing.

“ _Alright. I’ll take this information to Fury, and then we’ll probably have a meeting in regards to it and to recap what we have so far._ ”

“Roger that, Rogers. Just keep me posted.”

***

Sam was leaving their shared hotel room as Peter showed up. “Hey, Petey,” he said, glancing up from his phone. “Just heard you got Wade Wilson to hock up some good info. Nice job.”

Peter tried not to flush, mumbling out a quick thanks. “Where are you off to?” Peter asked, catching the door before the other agent closed it.

“Meeting with Fury and some of the others to go over the new information you got from Wilson today,” he said. “You're supposed to be there, too. Don't worry; it'll just be a short thing. If you're ready, I can drive.”

Fighting down a weary sigh, Peter nodded and went straight back into the elevator with the other agent. He’d been hoping for at least an hour of rest.

“So, how’d the interview go?” Sam asked as they waited for the elevator to take them to the lobby. “Besides the obvious, I mean.”

“One part confusing, two parts unhelpful,” Peter hummed, leaning against the railing. “He was acting a bit strange today, too.”

Sam frowned. “Strange how?” he asked. “Anything that we should be worried about?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Peter assured him. “No stranger than any other day, I guess.”

“I’d believe your gut with this guy, Pete,” Sam said, lowering his voice. He pulled Peter to the side of the lobby, making sure no one was listening. “If it’s telling you something’s not right and you should do something, you should probably listen to it.”

Peter twisted his mouth in indecision. “I don’t think it’s anything too major, but I’ll keep an eye on any other changes in his behavior,” he said. “It’s just…I feel like he gave up this information a lot easier than before. Usually I have to fight tooth and nail, and today it felt like he was going _easy_ on me. And he let me leave without complaining. I know that Rogers threatened him some the other day, but I don’t think it’s just that that has him acting weird.”

Sam grunted. “It’s almost a guarantee that he has some kind of ulterior motive, but at the moment, we just have to wait it out and see.”

Peter made a sound in agreement, and they went out to the car.

***

The meeting was only an hour or so, conducted in a meeting room at the police station, but it left Peter even more drained than before. He was forced to go through every small part of their conversation, and Wilson’s mannerisms at every moment, while comparing it to the information they knew. Rogers looked deeply displeased about the questions that Wade had been Peter, but stayed quiet.

With plans for Tony to track down info on Weasel and for Steve and Peter to go question the man the next day, the agents were dismissed and allowed to go back to their hotel rooms. Natasha stayed behind to continue going over the case, but the others were quick to pile into their cars and head back to the hotel.

When he entered the hotel, his phone immediately started ringing. Peter glanced down at his phone, expecting to see Fury or Rogers’ name pop up, but it was an unknown number. His thumb hovered over the ‘ignore’ button, but he sighed and pressed ‘answer,’ bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

“ _Uh, hi, is this Peter Parker?”_

“Yes, it is.” He waved for Clint to go on ahead when the man gave him a curious look.

“ _Hi, I’m Harry, one of the nurses down at the hospital. Er, the one that ran into you. You dropped your wallet today, and I didn’t get a chance to give it back to you before you left._ ”

Peter patted down his pockets, muttering a curse when he realized that his wallet was, in fact, missing. “Shoot, I didn’t even notice it was gone,” he groaned. “Uh, I’m busy the next few days, can I come in on Tuesday to get it?”

“ _No problem!”_ the man on the other end chirped. “ _Or what hotel are you staying at? I live in Bayville, if it was close enough I could just drop it off…_ ”

Peter hesitated, unsure if he should let the stranger know where he was staying. _Fuck it_. “I’m staying at the Marriott, downtown.”

“ _Perfect, I live five minutes from there. I can have it to you in half an hour, if you wanted_.”

“That would be great, Harry. Thanks.”

A half an hour later and Peter was standing in the lobby of the hotel room, shuffling his feet and fighting off exhaustion. He smiled when a man wearing scrubs walked in.

“Hi, Harry?” he asked with a polite smile.

“Yeah, that’s me,” the man said breathlessly, cheeks flushed from the cold. “I’m Harry Osborn. Agent Parker, right?”

Peter nodded in confirmation. “Thanks so much for coming out here and dropping it off,” he thanked him.

“Hey, it’s no problem,” the nurse said, holding his hands up and giving him a charming smiles. “I was just glad I could help, agent.”

“Yeah, you totally saved me some time,” he smiled. His gaze drifted down and he saw the nametag, reminding him of what the man said earlier. “I’m sorry, but did you say your last name was Osborn?”

Harry cocked to his head to the side, scratching the back of his head and giving him a rueful smile. “Yup. Dr. Osborn is my dad.”

“Wow, that must be...interesting,” Peter said awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.

Harry laughed. “Yeah, he’s a bit of a hard ass,” he shrugged. “I don't really interact with him, but since I’ve started interning at the hospital I’m remembering how much of a dick he is.”

“Oh! You're the new nurse Wi--the inmates were talking about.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he seemed almost in awe. “I didn't know I was worth talking about,” he stuttered.

Peter snorted. “The son of the director working as a nurse? That's definitely going to get a lot of attention.”

Harry’s ears and face flushed, and a small smile curved on his lips. “Hopefully it doesn't make work _too_ hard,” he joked.

Peter gave him a pitying smile, reaching out and patting the nurse on the shoulder.

They said their goodbyes, and Peter went to the elevators when he was sure that Harry was gone.

As the elevator door closed, Peter absently went through his wallet, making sure that everything was still in place. All of his credit cards and IDs were there, but it seemed like his extra hotel key that he’d kept was missing. That didn’t concern him very much--he’d probably just misplaced it for the twentieth time. Plus, he had a million other things to worry about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated!  
> These next updates should come a bit more smoothly starting at the end of the month when classes are done, because I'll have a lot of free time and I managed to draft out everything :)
> 
> If you have any comments/questions/prompts for me, message me: continuitygains.tumblr.com


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